Work allergy.

My parents and sister will not be surprised to hear me say: I think I'm allergic to work.

After a full and glorious, albeit too short, week off of work for Thanksgiving, I came back to the office on a Monday. Cold. Dreary. Monday. 

The hours dragged by slowly. I felt as if I never could fully wake up. I had a headache nearly all day. My stomach grumbled to be fed whenever it wanted--not on some predetermined (not by me) schedule.

I did not feel like that during my time off. I never feel like that on weekends. The obvious conclusion is that I am allergic to work and should be a stay-at-home wife.

I'll clarify that I do, actually, like my job. I'm quite good at it and get along with everyone I work with reasonably well. Importantly, I get paid to be good at something and work well with people. But I also really like being in my pajamas (as you are now aware), and I'm not allowed to do that at the office. Apparently the Governor frowns on it. 

(Side note: guess what charming newly-wed couple sat in the same pew as the current Florida governor--complete with security detail in dark suit and curly wire going from the ear piece disappearing down the back of the jacket--this Sunday? I shook the first lady's hand during the Peace. She wore cute shoes. I think that means I'm now much, much more important that I was before.)

Besides having to get dressed on a daily basis (so overrated), being at work also means office politics. Say the right thing. Make sure to be a team player. Remember who is friendly with whom. Make sure to show up. Silly things like that. 

If I stayed at home, my biggest daily struggle would be deciding which trash tv programs to have on in the background while I putter about, half-heartedly straightening the house before Patrick gets home. But if I were given that opportunity, the chance to putter and cook with Ricki Lake in the background (oh yes--she's back!), I'd happily prepare that man a cold Manhattan and present it to him at the end of each work day. I would buy him hats just so he could wear them home, take one off when he walked in the door, and hand it to me as I hand him a perfectly mixed drink. I'd do it in my PJs, but I'd do it, darn it.

Ah, but being at home would have its own struggles wouldn't it? For one, a monthly reduction in income of about 50%. That's nothing to sneeze at. Plus my benefits are pretty good. Being seen in nothing but loose cotton and old socks probably would not stoke the flames of Patrick's burning love for me. It might not throw cold water on that fire, but it surely won't help fan the flames. I love Lizzie, but she is fairly limited in her conversation. (Oh, but when she says something, it's so witty!)

I also really hate housework.

I guess this all means I'm going to just keep on being employed. But if Patrick happens to have a Vodka Tonic ready to go when I get home, I won't turn it down.